


Field Marshall Cullen’s Fresh Start, Aided by Cookery

by uduna



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: F/M, Letters, Reddit fiction exchange, Romance, Some Humor
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-08-03
Updated: 2017-08-03
Packaged: 2018-12-10 11:57:11
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,790
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11691135
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/uduna/pseuds/uduna
Summary: The Commander comes up against Mage Tenebra Trevelyan. He writes to his sister as a distraction from withdrawals and finds himself remembering home in food; then does the same for The Herald.Or something like that.





	Field Marshall Cullen’s Fresh Start, Aided by Cookery

**Author's Note:**

> This fic was written for the fabulous u/Trilobyte141 from the r/dragonage fic giveaway on Reddit. Written to fit her Inquisitor Tenebra Trevelyan.

Cullen ambled from his office to the Great Hall. It was one of those days when there was some time to do whatever a person might wish, a reprieve from the usual frantic preparations for war and reconstruction. The bright rotunda was empty; his steps echoed in the most colourful space for many miles around. He sometimes stopped here to admire the murals, but today he wanted to speak to Varric about tapping into some part of his spiderweb of connections.

He stepped into the Hall and heard Vivienne’s voice above, cold and measured and contemptuous, countered by the furious and rising tones of Inquisitor Trevelyan. The nervous faces down here below spoke to how ugly the argument had gotten this time. He sighed.

He must abscond before he could get collared into _fixing_ it. He giddily remembered the occasion when a sofa was sent flying over the balustrade in magical fury. It had narrowly missed a visiting dignitary of some variety. Orlesian? Nevarran? Josephine had nearly had a seizure over it, had had to spend days ameliorating the damage to the fop’s precious sensitivities, and _he_ had been sent up to beg the mages to calm down, with predictable results.

‘We didn’t all have the option to fuck our way to freedom, _Grand Enchanter_!’

Aaaaand that was his cue to leave. In any case, he wasn’t fit to deal with it: he was a Templar no longer. Yes, it was convenient, but still. He didn’t take lyrium anymore, yet the magical energies building up in the space made his blood itch. He slipped back to the quiet safety of his office, taking deep gulps of cold air.

The children in his village used to play a game called _Whip_. A string of kids would join hands and run on a serpentine route, getting faster and faster, until on one of the turns the last one would get whipped off the line. He found himself thinking of this as he beat his retreat out of the Hall. Tenebra would happily – no, that wasn’t true, never happily, surely she never did anything _happily_ – hold the line until she hit a breaking point, then the whip would crack, and Maker help anyone who crossed that trajectory. Vivienne had a knack for cracking it. He assumed she did it on purpose, but to what end, he couldn’t guess. None of his business.

 _Keep your head down. Mages are trouble_.

He didn’t like that he was avoiding the Inquisitor – his superior officer, really, if it came down to it. He had sworn himself to her cause; he shouldn’t be hiding under his desk when she was upset. Still, here he was in the office, obstinately staring down at the map on his table, in no way acknowledging the pull of the lyrium case on the shelf just out of sight – third shelf from the top, far right end, balanced on its side so as to take up the least amount of space, not that he was keeping tabs – trying to come up with something constructive to do.

 

\--

Mia,

As requested, I’m writing from Skyhold. I am not dead. I am quite healthy.

 

Cullen

 

\--

 _Prickly. Angry. Stern_.

Those had been his first impressions of the prisoner when he was faced with her on the slopes near the devastation of the former Temple of Sacred Ashes. Striking rather than lovely, one side of her face was covered in a fascinating web of scars; her nose had been broken at some point; he had wondered idly if the scars and the break had happened at the same time.

For her part, when he’d finally caught her full attention, her reaction had been instantly readable. _Templar_. The glare had spoken for her. He must still reek of it. He’d felt instantly diminished. His gaze had dropped as she’d moved away with Cassandra.

 

\--

Cullen,

Imagine our shock when a raven arrived in South Reach with the official seal of the Inquisition on it. It was the talk of the village all week. ~~Imagine, too, the great disappointment with the content of your letter. A decade of chasing nothing but rumours and when we finally hear from you~~

We’re very grateful that you’re all right and that you’re safe. We miss you. Please write again.

 

Love, Mia

 

\--

Turned out her air of annoyed, distrustful impatience was how she was all the time. Cullen had not been the only recipient of her glares. He’d thought her uniquely unqualified for the position of Herald. Her temper was at best unreliable and she seemed indifferent to the cares of anyone around her. She stormed around Haven, made no attempt to mask her contempt for people she disliked (he was certainly on that list, especially after she’d learned of his past in Kirkwall), and only grudgingly agreed to try to forge alliances for the Inquisition. Surely Our Lady would have chosen for her Hand someone more benevolent?

 

\--

Mia,

You’re right. I have been remiss. I’m sorry.

I don’t know what to tell you. Things are very busy here. The weather continues fine.

 

Cullen

 

\--

As Haven had thawed softly in the last days of winter, so too had his opinion of the Herald. Her veneer of stern impatience was not by any means insincere, but he had learned that it covered a complex and even – surprisingly – kind interior. A great heart sheathed in steel. Spiky steel. With frightening stains on it. ‘She’s a warrior,’ Warden Blackwall had said approvingly, and he wasn’t wrong.

By the time they had gotten to Skyhold, he had learned a great deal about her, mostly second-hand. Josephine had thought it prudent to warn him, given his background, that she had had a difficult history with Templars. The Ambassador’s hints had only gradually penetrated his obtuseness: the Herald’s scars and broken nose had been courtesy of a Templar. _Blast_. He had tried to be careful around Trevelyan, be more gentlemanly, or at least polite – or , really, just tried not to show his irritation when she was being angry and obstinate. He was working on it.

Leliana had approached to ask if he could help with the Herald’s personal search for her brother. Jude was a Templar too, and Cullen gathered that the siblings had been very close. The Trevelyans were a noble family from the Marches, known for being particularly devout – in Chantry circles a very recognised name. It would only make sense for some of them to join the Order, but he wondered if that had been Jude’s only motivation. To have some means of being in contact with a beloved sister would no doubt be attractive, though he must surely have known he would never have been assigned to the same Circle Tenebra was in. Still, it was a thought.

The brother who loved her enough to follow her into Chantry exile must be very precious to her. She had tried to find him in the chaos following the mage rebellion, had braved much, and found nothing. Cullen would do his damnedest to track him down, though he didn’t actually recognise the name.

Jude sounded like the only family she was, or had ever been, close to. It was sad but common for parents to lose interest in a child once magic manifested: such a child would be a great disappointment, a source of shame, especially in noble families where alliances of marriage were so important. A mage child would be a waste.

He did not think Tenebra could ever be thought of as a waste.

But then, as Josephine was constantly chiding him, he did not understand politics. He did, however, understand the art of war. It was why Cassandra had asked him here, wasn’t it? And the Herald was a warrior at heart. When first he had seen her sparring with The Iron Bull – _what a name_ – he’d perceived it instantly: she could strategise and counterattack in the space of a breath, she used her staff as a weapon more than a focus for magic, and she delighted in exercise. _That_ he could understand.

So: here was the Herald of Andraste: passionate, tireless, intensely defensive of people she cared about, prepared to sacrifice much for the sake of those she loved, an intelligent, determined warrior, marked by her experience of subjugation, who brooked no nonsense from anyone regardless of station. The Hand of the Bride of the Maker.

He should not have doubted Andraste’s wisdom.

 

\--

Mia,

What was the name of that teacher from Ostwick who sometimes stopped over in Honnleath? He used to make bread with cocoa in it. Not sweet. We ate it with stew. Do you remember? Mother used to love it. Did he show you how to make it?

 

Cullen

 

\--

Her scars, he learned, were something she was intensely self-conscious about. She thought they made her look ugly rather than compelling. She sometimes absent-mindedly rubbed the broken part of her nose when she was thinking intently, scowling into her own thoughts. He was sure she didn’t even know she was doing it. It was endearing.

 

\--

Cullen,

Really? We haven’t heard from you in ten years and you’re only writing to ask for recipes? Do you even know how to make bread? Do they not feed you in the Inquisition? Aren’t you their Captain or something?

I’ve copied out the recipe ‘that teacher’ gave to Mother. His name was Elric Stahl, by the way, since you seem not to remember. He taught you your letters. I’m sure he’d be very pleased to know that you still recall how to use them.

 

Love,

Mia

your sister! The one you should be writing actual letters to! You also have two other siblings. Do you need me to tell you their names as well?

 

  Cocoa Bread

  2 tsp dry yeast,1 1/4 cups water, 4 Tbsp sugar, 3 cups flour, 1/2 cup cocoa, 1 1/2 tsp salt

  Sprinkle yeast in 1/2 cup lukewarm water ( _actually lukewarm, Cullen. NOT hot. NOT cold. This is important!_ ). Let sit 5 minutes and add sugar and stir to dissolve. Mix flour, cocoa and salt in large bowl. Make a well in the centre of the flour, and pour in the dissolved yeast.

  Pour about half the remaining water into the well. Mix in the flour from the sides, and stir in reserved water as needed to form a stiff dough. Knead until smooth and elastic ( _Get someone to show you how_ ). Put dough in greased bowl, and cover. Let rise until doubled in size, about 1 hour. Punch down, and let rest 10 minutes.

  Shape dough into round loaf. Place on lightly floured baking sheet and cover. Proof ( _This means let it rise again_ ) until doubled, about 45 minutes.

  Heat oven to 425 degrees. Dust loaf with cocoa. Make a series of slashes, 1/2-inch deep, across the top of the loaf (four Xs). Bake 45 minutes or until hollow sounding when you tap on the bottom. ( _It will be very hot. Don’t burn your fingers._ )

 

\--

Dorian approached him about chess, and they had taken to playing every few afternoons in Skyhold’s gentle gardens. At first he assumed the mage was merely flirting with him, but dropped the idea when he found the sessions soothing and simply good company. They distracted him from constantly trying not to think about the bloody lyrium (moved to the bottom shelf now, left-hand side, behind the books). He thought Dorian had worked it out – the man possessed a great intelligence, after all, which he happily boasted about when asked – but they never spoke of it.

 

\--

Mia,

All right. Fine. Yes, it is true: I am the Commander of the Inquisition forces, but it sounds more illustrious than it is. Training recruits and organising supply lines in the Frostbacks is not glamorous.

Inquisitor Trevelyan is from Ostwick. I thought it might be nice to give her a taste of home, hence the bread.

My sincere affection to my other siblings, Branson and Rosalie, and of course to you as well.

 

Cullen,

_Commander of the Inquisition Forces_

 

\--

When he trounced Dorian in front of the Inquisitor it was delicious, and the day only got better when she agreed to play the game with him next. She was a good opponent and a graceful loser. The glint in her eye was familiar: he recognised the feeling he’d had when he’d been bested by Mia once too often.

They chatted like normal people. It was a precious hour.

 

\--

Commandant,

‘Sincere affection’??? Honestly Cullen.

It must be rather lonely for the Inquisitor. I’d heard she was one of the Trevelyans. Mother Burghild says they’re held to be very devout. They must be very proud that one of the family is the Herald of Andraste. Personally to me it sounds awful. Does she get any time to herself, or does she always have to be on display? Does it bother you that she’s a mage? Do you have to keep her in check? Are you the Templar assigned to watch her? Strikes me as a very ticklish situation.

All this is none of my business, of course, not that you’d tell me in any case. I’m amazed you remembered where we live.

If the Inquisitor is homesick for food, here’s another one of Elric’s recipes he shared with Mother. He loved it, said it was quintessential Marcher food, though I have to admit Mother wasn’t all that keen. I think it’s rather good. Father did too.

 

 _Love_ ,

Mia

 

  Chicken with Thyme and Sweet Potato

  8 skinless chicken thighs, 1/2 tsp salt, 1/2 tsp pepper, 2 tsp cooking oil, 2 onions sliced, 1/2 tsp dried thyme, 1 Tbsp flour or cornstarch, 1 cup apple cider or apple juice, 2 sweet potatoes, 1 Tbsp chopped fresh parsley

  Trim any fat from thighs; sprinkle with salt and pepper. In large skillet, heat oil over medium-high heat; brown thighs. Remove to plate.

  Drain any fat from pan. Add onions and thyme; cook over medium heat, stirring occasionally, until softened, about 5 minutes. Sprinkle with flour; cook, stirring, for 1 minute. Add cider; bring to boil, scraping up any brown bits from bottom of pan. Return chicken, fleshier side down, and any accumulated juices to pan. Reduce heat to medium-low; cover and simmer for 10 minutes.

  Meanwhile, peel and cut potatoes into 1-inch cubes; add to pan. Turn chicken over; simmer, covered, until juices run clear when chicken is pierced and potatoes are tender, about 30 minutes. Sprinkle with parsley.

 

\--

They played chess often, and spoke more and more comfortably together. It was – it was easy, being with her, winning and losing the game – she played to win, he was pleased to note – speaking about his childhood, about his boyhood’s aspirations. There was a flicker in her eye when he spoke of the closeness of his family, four boisterous children and affectionate parents, and he stuttered to a stop.

‘I wasn’t thinking,’ he apologised, but she interrupted him.

‘I like it,’ she said. ‘It reminds me of Jude. Keep talking.’

Later, he stood at his desk, nervous and perplexed. Skyhold’s cook frankly frightened him; he would have to formulate a plan to get access to the kitchen without being… well, attacked. Normally he excelled at strategising, but he was flummoxed here. He almost laughed: in other circumstances, he would have asked Tenebra.

 _Blackwall_ , he found himself thinking out of the blue. _He knows a lot about women. He can help_. He was halfway to the door when he caught himself. He didn’t actually know that about Blackwall. Why had he thought it? He turned back towards his desk to discover Cole sitting on it, swinging his legs, stupidly oversized hat obscuring his face.

‘Ah, Cole,’ he said awkwardly.

‘He can _help_ ,’ Cole insisted.

 

\--

Mia,

I implore you to bear in mind that the Inquisition has an official spymaster. She without any doubt reads _everything_ that passes through Skyhold.

I do not maintain a special watch on the Inquisitor. I am no longer a Templar. My duties do not involve keeping mages in check. I cannot explain more, I’m sorry, but please understand that anything involving the Templars is forever outside my purview.

Thank you for both recipes. I think Tenebra was surprised and pleased.

 

Cullen

 

\--

Leliana and Josephine had taken to obnoxious giggles every time he arrived in the War Room. He didn’t know why, which only made them more insufferable.

No giggles today, though, he thought smugly, reading the Ambassador’s scathing, indignant letter about Sera’s pranks getting out of hand. Again. The image of Josephine doused in a bucket of freezing water balanced on her door filled him with something approaching glee. Nevertheless, he would have to write a proper, official response to this. Sera’s pranks were the stuff of legend, and Tenebra’s open delight in them only exacerbated the problem. He strongly suspected she took part – she had a puckish streak a mile wide. He grinned, remembering the episode when she had faked – badly – a Starkhaven accent and pretended not to know who the Inquisitor was upon the arrival of a particularly unpalatable, self-aggrandising Antivan noble. Cullen had nearly cracked a rib keeping his laughter in check.

He drew out paper and quill. If he could only get his desk to stop wobbling. Maker’s breath! He had carefully placed it so that it _wouldn’t_ wobble when he’d first moved in. It had taken him _hours_ to get it just so. Now he couldn’t even write in a straight line! Had the weather changed or something? This was too maddening.

 

\--

Admiral,

Do you remember Hrolf from down the road in Honnleath? His father was Alfwin the baker. He had a big mole on his earlobe. The father, not the son. They ~~fled~~ moved with us down here during the Blight, along with Rikilda Golden the brewer and her family. She was the one who was so afraid of that awful statue in the centre of the village. Golden’s Golden Ale. Anyway Alfwin is gone now three autumns past, and Hrolf has the bakery in South Reach. He married a girl from some nameless hamlet on the road between Markham and Ostwick. I’ve asked Hrolf if she has any recipes from home. I’ll send them if she does.

 _Tenebra_ now, is it?

 

Love,

Mia

 

\--

‘“Modest in temper, bold in deed.”’ Dorian gestured grandly at the Inquisitor as she scowled down some demanding merchant.

‘What?’ Cullen asked.

‘It’s the House Trevelyan motto.’ Cullen spluttered a laugh. ‘Didn’t you know?’ Dorian smirked at him, the bastard. ‘Don’t worry, Commander; I’m sure she’ll show you her boldness soon enough.’ Cullen’s fair colouring betrayed him as usual; Dorian waggled his brows and laughed aloud. ‘Ah! young love,’ he sighed as he swaggered off.

Cullen tried to shrink into his armour.

 

\--

Mia,

It’s entirely because of you that the Spymaster’s scouts have taken to addressing me as Skipper. Please stop.

 

Cullen.

Just Cullen. Please. Really.

 

\--

Things were rather wonderful. There was danger and sorrow and exhaustion and fear, but even so. Really quite, quite wonderful. _Boldness_ , he’d thought, when he’d kissed her on the ramparts, though he’d felt wholly the opposite. _Boldness_.

He could even live with his men openly cheering when he arrived next morning for the regular training session.

 

\--

Brigadier,

Featris, Hrolf’s wife from near Ostwick ~~, in case you’ve forgotten her name as well~~ No, scratch that, you haven’t met her. Anyway she sends the following.

Please give our best to _Tenebra_.

 

Love,

Mia

 

  Pesto & Olive-Crusted Fish

  2 Tbsp green pesto, finely grated zest of 1 lemon, 10 green olives pitted and roughly chopped, 3 oz fresh breadcrumbs, 4 white fish fillets such as cod or haddock

  Heat oven to 350 degrees. Mix the pesto, lemon zest and olives together, then stir in the breadcrumbs.

  Lay the fish fillets on a baking tray, skinside down, then press the crumbs over the surface of each piece. Bake in the oven for 10-12 min until the fish is cooked through and the crust is crisp and brown.

 

\--

Jude’s fate was very hard. By the time it was known – well, it was the most likely outcome, wasn’t it? No one had wanted to consider it, but they could hardly help it.

Her party arrived from l’Emprise in late afternoon; Varric appeared in his doorway, face bleak, wanting to get to him before word got round. Red _fucking_ lyrium.

Cullen dashed to her quarters to find himself forestalled by Dorian. ‘She needs to be alone,’ the mage said. When Cullen bristled, he held up his palm in a gesture of peace. ‘She needs to be angry, and she can’t be that kind of angry around you. She’ll need you, just… not yet.’

 

\--

Mia,

Maker’s breath. What in the Fade is pesto??

 

Cullen

 

\--

For a long time now he had been kicking himself because he could never really be a good match for her, and he knew it, and now he was stuck. He had been selfish in this indulgence – no, damn it, not indulgence. He had allowed himself to _fall in love with_ the woman, knowing he could never live up to her. She was noble; he was not. At its most basic, that was the core problem. Vivienne, though a bitch, was right: any connection Tenebra had with him would only reduce her standing.

And he had his own terrible baggage he’d lugged with him everywhere since Kinloch Hold, and not just the lyrium problem. He had never thought to speak of Kinloch to anyone, yet he could never keep secrets from her. She deserved to know. She was very angry – not at him, he was astonished to realise, but with his tormentors and supervisors. He should have been given help, not merely fobbed off onto another tower, she said. She glared.

When he confessed his concerns about her nobility, she laughed aloud. ‘I hate it,’ she said. ‘I just want to be with you, Cullen. Other people’s opinions can fuck off. _Including Vivienne’s_ ,’ she added cannily.

He loved her glares. Was that crazy? Was it crazier that he couldn’t care less?

 

\--

Commodore,

Language, please!

 

  Pesto

  1 3/4 oz pine nuts, large bunch of basil, 1 3/4 oz parmesan cheese, 5 oz olive oil (plus extra for storing), 2 garlic cloves

  Heat a small frying pan over a low heat. Cook the pine nuts until golden, shaking occasionally. Put into a mortar and pestle with the remaining ingredients and process until smooth, then season. Pour the pesto into a jar and cover with a little extra oil, then seal and store cold.

 

Featris also sends these. She says her Grandnanna made her the dessert if she was very very good.

 

Love,

Mia

 

  Rivaini Soup

  2 ripe avocados, 1 cup milk or light cream, 2 scallions minced, 1 tsp lemon juice, 3 cups chicken broth, 1/4 cup sweet fortified wine, salt and pepper, 1/4 cup cilantro minced

  Cut avocados in half. Pit, peel, and cut them into chunks. Mash avocado until smooth. Add scallions and lemon juice and mash again to make the mixture is smooth. Bring chicken broth to boil. Turn off heat and add wine, salt, pepper, half of cilantro. Let sit for a few minutes. Pour avocado mixture into broth and mix thoroughly. Chill soup and serve and garnish with rest of cilantro.

 

  Hazelnut Chocolate Cake

  1 1/2 oz light oil (plus extra for greasing), 5 1/2 oz ground hazelnuts (or almonds),1 tsp baking powder, 1 Tbsp cocoa powder, 2 large eggs, 1 3/4 oz caster sugar, 1 Tbsp Markham honey or Dalish tree syrup

  Heat oven to 350 degrees. Line an 8-inch springform cake tin with baking parchment and brush very lightly with oil. ( _Ask the cook there for one. They will have one. DO NOT try to use a different kind of pan!_ ) Thoroughly combine the ground hazelnuts, baking powder and cocoa and set aside.

  Whisk eggs, sugar and honey/syrup together in a bowl until very thick, pale and foamy and roughly tripled in volume. The mixture should hold a trail on the surface when you lift the beaters. Add the hazelnut mix to the bowl and continue to whisk while you trickle in the oil. Keep whisking until the mix is thoroughly combined.

  Scrape the batter into the prepared tin and level it out. Bake for 20 minutes or until just firm to the touch in the centre (it will remain quite shallow). A skewer inserted in the middle of the cake should come out clean.

  Leave to cool completely in the tin then remove and carefully peel away the lining paper. Serve in slices.

 

\--

A note on his desk: _What, my kitchen isn’t good enough for you? Is it cause I’m a dwarf? You’ll fit just fine._ signed by Cabot, the bartender.

Cullen was torn between gratitude and mortification. The whole fortress must know of his enterprise. He dropped his head in his hands. He also started using the tavern kitchen.

 

\--

Mia,

Avocado? Aren’t they those flavourless green things that look like… _you know_? They smell like compost! You’ve given me a recipe for baby food?

And I nearly started an inferno in the tavern kitchen because of the cake. The paper caught fire! However I must admit the second attempt was a success. Tenebra loved it. Said her nanny used to make it.

 

Cullen

 

\--

It had been a long time since he’d allowed himself to think more than a few months ahead. After he’d drummed up the bravery to speak with Tenebra , he gave himself permission to think more deliberately about it. A future. A real one. With her. It couldn’t be possible. It was too precious, too fragile. It would shatter like glass if he tried to touch it. But oh, it was so, so tantalising.

They could – they could make life _better_. Together. Happily. Well…contentedly. Perhaps they could travel. He could show her Ferelden. They could go see the Grand Tourney in the Marches. They could avoid Orlais like the plague. _Together_.

 

\--

Colonel,

Don’t feed scallions to a baby, Cullen. Trust me. And if the paper caught fire, the oven was too hot. I’m glad your lady liked the cake.

This was Father’s favourite dessert. I thought you might want a copy.

 

Love,

Mia

 

  Father’s Apple Crisp

  5 apples - peeled, cored, and sliced, 3/4 cup Dalish syrup, 1/2 cup flour, 1/2 cup rolled oats, 1/2 cup brown sugar, 1 pinch salt, 1/4 cup butter softened

  Heat oven to 375 degrees. Place apples in an 8x8 inch baking dish. Toss apples with syrup. In a separate bowl, mix together flour, oats, sugar, and salt. Cut in butter until mixture is crumbly. Sprinkle mixture evenly over apples. Bake in the preheated oven for 35 minutes, until topping is golden brown. Serve warm or at room temperature. ( _Father loved this with whipped cream, you’ll remember. I assume._ )

 

\--

Cullen had to let her go, out into the worst danger of this generation, without him. It was _intolerable_. He found himself more and more often frequenting the little chapel.

His courage was not up to this. Tenebra’s was; he didn’t know how. She still played pranks with Sera, still quipped back and forth with Dorian, still spat at Vivienne, still kissed him like it was all fine.

 _Fine_. It will all be fine, she said. We’ll win. Of course we will.

She let him hold her in the dim chapel, breathing in each other’s breath, sharing their warmth, memorising every little detail of that moment in case their future held no more for them.

 

\--

Commander,

Just promise me you’ll bring her to South Reach to meet us when this is all over, Cullen. It sounds like she’s estranged from her family. She should know she _has_ family. We’re all very proud of both of you.

 

Love,

Mia

 

\--

Victory, Victory, Victory. They could hardly believe it. He clung to her at the top of the steps when she returned, the whole population of the keep cheering her, oblivious to them, face buried in her hair, and he praised Tenebra and Andraste over and over and over. He only let go when Leliana gave him a sharp elbow to the ribs.

 

\--

Mia,

I promise. I don’t know when we can get there. But I promise.

Thank you. For everything. I miss you.

 

Love,

Cullen

 

\-------

Recipes found here:

http://nonesuchexists.blogspot.ca/2010/02/dark-chocolate-bread.html

www.canadianliving.com/food/skillet_chicken_and_sweet_potatoes.php

https://www.bbcgoodfood.com/recipes/3182/pesto-and-olivecrusted-fish

https://www.bbcgoodfood.com/recipes/1507660/classic-pesto

http://todays1019.cbslocal.com/2017/06/02/in-my-kitchen-22/

http://www.telegraph.co.uk/foodanddrink/11118712/River-Cottage-recipes-Hazelnut-chocolate-cake.html

http://allrecipes.com/recipe/16853/maple-apple-crisp/


End file.
